


Forgive Us, Sansa Stark

by daw



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:37:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9926528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daw/pseuds/daw
Summary: One-off about how Sansa would affect the ladies at court if she had just a few more years in the North.Strong!Sansa





	

**Author's Note:**

> AU post-the show's current length, where Sansa and Jon have succeeded in starting a rebellion.

The week she arrived in court, Sansa Stark was the name on every lady’s tongue.

 

The older women of the court considered her every movement, judging the mettle of their future queen and nodding in stern pleasure at her grace. They liked this fiery-haired northern girl despite themselves. She took to southron fashions, but set her own fashions, too. Though her smiles were shy, they came easily and with a quickness that betrayed her gentle demeanor. They couldn’t help their enchantment.

 

The younger women, on the other hand.…

 

Sansa Stark was unbearably regal. You see, she might have been young (sixteen? seventeen? no one was quite sure), but by the gods, she was tall! The day she’d arrived with the rest of the king’s entourage, the whole court could plainly see her head rise above the Hound’s shoulders.

 

Somehow, she wore it well. Lady Tanya (certified tallest woman at court) fell a couple inches shorter, but she had the humility to hunch herself in order to make no man uncomfortable. But Sansa. She seemed so bloody much like a docile cow, but her posture and long-limbed stride—maybe they imagined it, but did she smirk at the boys who had to jog to keep pace with her?

 

They could go down the list of exactly why Sansa Stark was a fucking destroyer of all womanly virtue, and it was maddening, because how could that be?! Her embroidery fucking screamed “I have never known the touch of a man! I am consecrated to the Seven, dedicated to the Mother!” She fucking baked, sneaking into the kitchens when her wolf’s nose snuffled for lemon tarts. None of it, none of her made sense. Her shoulders were broad and her hips sturdy. Her waist was supple, and her back’s curve strong without a corset’s support. They would call her a man if it didn’t make them look so idiotic! They would call her a cow if she wasn’t so beautiful!

 

They tried to find fault with her face, then. Her nose was prominent, eyes large and tranquil, lips a bit on the thin side. Her cheeks pinked too easily, never without a ruddiness. Her chin was stubborn, with a little cleft to boot, her cheeks a bit too sharp, and her eyebrows a wee bit thick. But fuck me sideways, she walked in beauty and her own strength, and we knew it.

 

Before it all started, all the tragedy, we started to follow her. We adjusted the cut of our dresses, first. We used to have them cut to minimize our undesirable parts. Used to cut our necklines and shoulder seams to slope from our necks, to minimize the broadness of our shoulders, and designed our bodices to constrict and distort our waists. Used to layer cloth on cloth to exaggerate the sway of our hips, without revealing the spring in our step and the strength in our bones. We wore shoes so delicate they might have been crafted from spun sugar. Now, months after she’s been declared a traitor to the realm, we haven’t gone back to our old ways.

 

Our necklines widened to show the strength of our shoulders. Slowly, we lost the corsets, and traded our heavy skirts for layers of muslin. Our elegance no longer came from dresses encrusted with heavy finery, but from subtle accents of harbor pearls and vibrant embroidery. Our shoes were no longer sugar spun to dizzying heights. They became leather and strong-heeled, capable of kicking back a man who didn’t accept that our no was no.

 

Sansa Stark, forgive me. I’m not sure if you’re still alive, but I need to ask your forgiveness. I was in court that day, when King Joffrey had you stripped. Forgive me for not running to put my shawl over you before Trant’s first strike fell. Forgive me for leaving it to a man, when it was you who gave us a glimpse of something beyond our prattles. I walk stronger now, and the sharpness of my tongue is now matched by the sharpness of my mind. I’m kinder, too, even in the face of this growing hell. Your example might just set the commoners against us, you know. Many will die, both us and them. And mercy on my soul, I believe our deaths more just than theirs.

 

I am afraid for when the day comes that I must answer for my life before the Stranger. Yet, I have no regrets, because, for a brief moment, you let us walk beside you in strength and beauty.

 

Forgive me, Sansa Stark, and the Seven bless you.


End file.
